Boxed In
by paperlion
Summary: Moreau's out, and he knows who to blame for his downfall. Torture doesn't have to be hands-on to be effective. (Just shameless Eliot whump.)
1. Chapter 1

"Scott," Eliot says. "Been a while."

Hardison wonders what Eliot's doing in his bedroom. His head is pounding, the room is spinning, and he does not remember having plans to go drinking with Eliot last night.

Actually, wait. Hardison can't remember last night at all. And since when was his mattress this hard and cold?

"How you been, man?" Eliot asks, in what is not actually a friendly tone at all.

Hardison opens his eyes.

This is…a weird dream, if he's lucky. He has nightmares sometimes, true, and yeah, enclosed spaces have been a popular feature the past couple of years, held over by popular demand from his subconscious, but this looks a lot like the inside of a shipping container, which is new.

The fact that he's handcuffed to Eliot? That's new too. (Well, if Hardison's honest, it's happened. But the shipping container and the arc light in his eyes and the guys with the guns make it at least a cross-genre crossover, and probably not in the good way.)

"Oh, you know," Scott—Hardison assumes that one must be Scott—answers. "Keeping busy."

"New job?" Eliot asks.

"Don't need one," Scott says. "There's a coup going on in San Lorenzo, didn't you hear?"

Hardison's hungover neurons all fire simultaneously, which doesn't actually lead to much in the way of a useful reaction. Eliot squeezes his wrist once, short and firm enough Hardison feels the bones move. It's a lot more reassuring than it should be.

The goons who aren't Scott are standing well back, behind the harsh light of the arc lamp, so Hardison can't see their faces as well as he'd like. He's pretty sure the guy on the right smirks a little. The goon doesn't lower his gun, though. Hardison can see the barrel facing him like an unblinking eye. He wishes he still thought this was a dream.

"Wow," Eliot says. "Sounds like a big day. How'd you get sidelined? You scratch his car again, or what?"

So much for playing it friendly. Eliot always knows what he's doing, and Hardison's heard all about the effective range of handguns by now. Eliot needs them in his reach, that's clear. But Scott's the only one reacting to Eliot's words—the others seem prepared to hold their aim forever—and even he doesn't step any closer.

"I asked for this detail," Scott says. "I've been looking forward to it."

"Aw. You missed me?" Eliot asks. "I don't still owe you for the thing in Monaco, do I? No, wait. You owe me—Macao, remember? Baccarat?"

"I remember," Scott says. "You and me and Hans and Sasha. That was a good night."

Hardison waits for Eliot to say something—he's not sure of the goal here but talking is better than shooting any day, at least until these guys give Eliot the opening he needs.

Eliot doesn't.

"Uh, Hans and Sasha, I presume?" Hardison says, gesturing to the other goons with his free hand, then giving them a little wave. They don't wave back.

"They were in the warehouse," Eliot says, too quiet.

"Oh, you did notice," Scott says. "I wondered. Didn't slow you down any."

"No," Eliot agrees.

Hardison's not sure what they're talking about, but he knows it ain't good. Eliot's tense enough Hardison can feel it coming through the cuffs, and if looks could kill, well, this whole encounter would be over already.

Speaking of which, Eliot's going to have a lot easier time if they're at least on their feet, and he's acutely aware that he's probably the reason they aren't. He pushes himself up, a little clumsy with the handcuffs—which actually look more like shackles, now that he's got a better view. Still, they have actually done this before.

This time Eliot doesn't crack any jokes.

"So what's the plan?" Hardison asks, breaking the silence. "A little torture between old friends, or…?"

It's probably a little insulting that Scott looks surprised to hear from him.

"You know we took your boss down like twice already, right?" Hardison hears himself say.

"It wasn't even _hard_," Eliot puts in, lying easily.

"We noticed," Scott says. "Your boss made sure of that. And you're right; this is a busy day. Busy week, actually. I voted for torture anyway—you know me, Eliot. But Damien's the boss for a reason."

He pats his pockets with the hand not holding the gun, miming a search.

"Which reminds me," Scott says, looking directly at Hardison. "Damien was pretty impressed with you. Our tech guy couldn't even figure out how you worked things back in San Lorenzo. So we got a new one. Oh, here it is."

"It" turns out to be a little box, about the size of a CB radio handset. Scott clicks it on, and Hardison steels himself.

"Hello, Eliot," Damien Moreau says. "I'm terribly sorry I couldn't be there in person."

"I can wait," Eliot says.

Moreau's laugh is just a little tinny. Hardison would have built in better sound quality.

"But sadly I cannot," Moreau says. "That Nate Ford you've attached yourself to has built quite reputation in such a short time. I'm afraid I have to give him the credit of taking steps to ensure your new team is distracted."

He doesn't have them. Parker is safe. Nate and Sophie are safe. Hardison feels a rush of relief so deep he has to lock his knees.

"And you did get at least two?"

"Alec Hardison," Scott confirms.

"Ah. The '24-year-old genius with a smartphone and a problem with authority.' Ideal. Nice work as usual, Scott."

"Thank you," Scott says.

Hardison suppresses the ridiculous temptation to point out that Moreau's been in prison for years now and he's not 24 anymore. Time must fly when you're locked up.

"Then we have everyone we really need to _punish_, wouldn't you say?"

"Yes, sir," Scott says.

"And you're ready to go?" Moreau asks.

"One moment, sir."

Scott nods at the gunman on his left, and the man steps out of the container. He leaves the door open. Hardison tries, but with the light in his eyes, he can't make out anything but vague shapes—maybe more containers. The goon is back in seconds, carrying a cloth bag the size of one of Sophie's carry-ons. Hardison's mouth goes dry.

The goon sets the bag inside the door almost casually, then pulls his gun and resumes his stance.

"Ready," Scott says.

"Proceed."

Scott motions, and the goon who'd carried the bag steps toward Hardison, gun steady. Hardison could probably see his face now, but he can't take his eyes off that dark barrel. This is it. The end. He should be grateful it'll only be the two of them, and he _is_, in some far-off, rational corner of his mind. He should be sad for Eliot, and he _is_. But those are background thoughts, and what's taking up 90 percent of his CPU right now is "No."

He's not ready for this.

When it comes, the shot is as loud as a punch and not painful at all. The sound richochets off the steel walls, and the shackle digs into his wrist with sudden sharpness, and Eliot is down and Hardison is…is fine. The shackle's pulled him into a crouch, the barrel of the gun still points at him, but Scott is smiling and Eliot is on his knees, folded over like he's taken one of his own hits.

The blood is already seeping out between Eliot's hands.

Scott studies Eliot for a few seconds, then raises the comm again.

"That should do it," he says.

"Seems a bit anticlimactic," Moreau sighs. "But nothing was ever going to be good enough for you, Eliot, was it?"

Eliot is still curled around himself, pulling Hardison half sideways by his wrist. He's panting rapidly, letting out audible grunts of pain. Hardison's pretty sure that's the Eliot version of screaming.

So Hardison answers instead. "Killing us won't save you, Moreau. You're just making sure Nate won't ever let you go."

"Well, true," Moreau said. "Killing you, satisfying as it would be, doesn't meet my needs right now. That's why you're alive. You even have a chance to stay that way. Scott, be a dear and explain, would you? I'm afraid my schedule is a bit full today."

Scott lowers the radio, flips a switch, and tosses it aside. Hardison hears it skitter against a wall somewhere behind the lamp.

"Five minutes out of every hour, this is a direct line to Nathan Ford's cellphone," he says. "This hour, that starts now, so you might want to grab it. Oh, and there's medical supplies in the bag."

He looks at Eliot again, assessing. "You're going to need the QuickClot in the side pocket. Good luck."

* * *

They leave.

They just…leave.

And lock the door behind them.

"Okay," Hardison says, because the quiet would be unnerving except it _isn't_ quiet, not with Eliot making those harsh little sounds. "What are our assets?"

The radio, for one.

They have five minutes to talk to Nate, and the radio is…somewhere over there. Hardison can't risk missing the window, not with Eliot's blood soaking into his sleeve. Not when he has no idea where they even are or how long it's been since they were taken.

The first aid kit, for another.

Hardison's not sure—he's not the damn medic on this team—but he thinks that might be more urgent than the radio. Eliot's conscious, but he's still not actually responding to anything, and he's losing a terrifying amount of blood. Of course, the radio's real. The first aid kit could contain anything.

What else does he have? Himself—for all the good his hacking skills can do in a bare-ass shipping container. Eliot, who's probably been in worse spots, hard as that is to believe. The light, still on, thank you, sweet baby Jesus.

"Can you move?" he asks, because nothing they need is in reach. Of course.

"Mmph," Eliot grunts, louder than the huffs he's been trying to smother.

Hardison's not sure if that's meant to a be a yes or not, but Eliot's never failed to do whatever he has to, and Hardison just hopes he ain't starting now.

"We need those supplies," Hardison tells him.

"Comm," Eliot grunts.

Hardison hesitates. Eliot's the expert here, but Hardison's not sure how much Eliot's registering right now.

Too late. Eliot pushes himself up, crumples, then drops into a crawl while Hardison's still trying to work out the best way to help him. It's slow going. Hardison still hasn't had a good look at the wound—he opens another six mental tabs about that, trying to scrape together everything he knows about first aid—but he's pretty sure that if _he'd_ been the one shot, Eliot would have had to carry him.

As it is, he can barely help. Handcuffs are going to be priority…well, priority three, after first aid and communications. In the meantime, Hardison matches his pace to Eliot, trying not to notice the trail of bloody handprints on the metal floor.

When they get there, Eliot collapses on his side, biting his lip and breathing sharply through his nose. Hardison fumbles for the radio. It's got a single switch, no label.

He flips the switch. Nothing happens, and there's no light to show it's working. Hardison holds his breath. Eliot doesn't—he's still panting like he's run a race, and _oh God, what if there's no air in here_—but he gives Hardison a frustrated look, like he thinks Hardison's just fucking around wasting time or something.

"Hello?" Hardison says. "Nate?"

A few clicks, some static. Then, "Hardison? What did you do to my phone? No, never mind. Just get back here."

"That's gonna be a problem," Hardison says.

"Well, solve it," Nate snaps. "There's something happening in San Lorenzo. Is Eliot still with you?"

"Yes," Hardison says. "But he's hurt—Moreau's guys took us, Nate. We're in a shipping container. I don't know where. They shot Eliot."

A pause. The sound quality changes; Nate's putting them on speaker.

"How bad is it?" Nate asks, calm as ever.

The words _gut shot_ hover on Hardison's tongue, refusing to form.

"Bad," Hardison says instead. "Can you track this?"

"Small caliber," Eliot says, like Nate won't be able to hear the strain in his voice. "Nate, he wants you to come for us. It's a trap."

"He left you a phone?"

"Assume they're listening," Hardison says, answering the real question. "He said we get five minutes, every hour. I'm not sure—we might lose you anytime. Listen, even if it's a trap, Eliot needs help _now_."

"Did they drive you?" Parker's talking fast, tense and focused. "Fly? Can you hear anything outside?"

"We woke up here," Hardison says. "I don't even know how they took us. I don't hear anything, but with the gunshot…"

"We're on a boat," Eliot grunts. "But…drugs…Woke up…15 minutes ago, maybe?"

"You left here three hours ago. Anything—"

Time's up.

Hardison flicks the switch a few times anyway, calling Nate's name. No good. And Eliot's getting paler by the second. Time to move again. Hardison's brain's finally starting to clear, at least; either the drugs are wearing off or the shock of it all is fading, or maybe it was just the determination in Parker's voice.

He pulls Eliot into a half-hug and lifts. Eliot fumbles, trying to get his legs to support him, and Hardison pulls him tighter, taking most of the weight and trying not to notice the way Eliot's trembling. Or the warmth of the blood soaking through his shirt.

They don't have as far to go this time, but when Hardison sets Eliot down, slow and gentle as he can manage, the other man's eyes are glassy. Hardison hopes it's just the pain and not the next stage of shock.

There's a canister in the side pocket, just as Scott said, but it's got a chemical label Hardison doesn't recognize. He pulls it open anyway.

He's not sure what he'd been expecting—maybe something like the styptic pencil he keeps in his medicine cabinet. What he finds is powdered clay.

"This is it, right?" he asks, shoving it in Eliot's face. "This is what you need?"

Eliot nods, grimacing.

"Do I just pour it on?"

Eliot nods, then presses his eyes closed. "Yuh," he pants. "Use a lot of it. More than you think. Then…put it on some gauze…pack it…in there."

Hardison digs into the bag. It _is_ full of supplies. Gauze, some plastic packets of water, bandages…even some blunt edged scissors. Either Moreau's underestimating them, or he thinks there's no way they can use this stuff to get out.

Well, Moreau's underestimated them before. Hardison will take inventory as soon as he gets a chance.

He pulls up Eliot's shirt, finally getting a look at the wound. _It's small_, he thinks. Smaller than he'd expected, anyway. It's low on Eliot's torso, off-center. The edges shift with Eliot's breaths, and blood oozes from it steadily. Hardison swallows back bile.

"Gonna hurt," Eliot mutters. "Don't freak out."

Which is the opposite of reassuring.

"Okay," he tells Eliot. "Here goes."

Eliot turns his face into his arm. Hardison can see muscles in Eliot's stomach spasm as they try to tense around the wound. Jesus, he can see the muscles _in _the hole. His hand shakes. Carefully, he tips some of the powder into the wound.

Eliot _screams_.

His back arches off the ground as he swipes blindly at Hardison's hand, pushing it aside, spilling more of the powdery stuff into the wound, then the floor.

"Shit!"

Hardison pushes Eliot down with his cuffed hand, trying to hold him still. Eliot is _spasming_, still screaming, and his hand finds Hardison's and _squeezes_.

"Good," Hardison yelps, trying to sound encouraging and hoping Eliot doesn't break his hand. "Doing good, man."

It takes Eliot a full minute to relax his hand into something resembling a death grip. His face is a rictus of agony.

_I did that_, Hardison thinks. He feels his eyes burn with tears and blinks them back.

"Need…more," Eliot pants.

"Eliot," Hardison says. _More_ is the last thing Eliot needs.

And if Hardison doesn't stop the bleeding, that's literally going to be true.

"Don't…don't do it slow…Please."

Hardison hesitates. He can't do it. Nate will find them. Parker's going to open that door and Eliot will have real help, painkillers, doctors, surgery. Hardison believes that with every fiber of his being. He does.

He just…doesn't believe it'll be in time.

He pours the powder on the wound.

Eliot's scream rattles off the container walls. Again, his back arches, his body shudders.

Hardison feels a tear slip down his own cheek and wipes it off with the back of his hand.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

But he doesn't stop. He rips open a bandage and a packet of gauze and pushes hard against the wound. Eliot jerks a little at the pressure, still moaning into his own shoulder. As quickly as he can, Hardison covers the wound, taping it down.

Eliot's still now. Too still. Hardison can see little half moons of white at the bottom of his half-shut eyes. He takes Eliot's wrist, looking for a pulse, then realizes he can see Eliot's chest rising and falling, fast but steady. It's probably just the pain, then.

Just.

He takes Eliot's pulse anyway, not sure anymore what he's checking for—it's what they do in all the movies, but as far as he's considered it's a binary situation, alive or dead. It's a good thing Eliot _is_ breathing, because his pulse is hard to find, and Hardison's starting to panic before he feels it, weak and fast. Hardison's never missed the internet and its instant answers more.

"Eliot?" he says. "What now?"

Eliot doesn't answer.

Hardison thinks. The bleeding seems to have stopped, which is a win. _The bleeding you can see_, he reminds himself.

_Best you can do_, he answers himself firmly. _Nate is coming._

In the meantime, he empties the bag, hoping for painkillers. To his complete lack of surprise, there aren't any. There's gauze; tape; some band-aids, which Hardison thinks were probably included as a cruel joke; tweezers; a sealed bag with a pre-threaded needle, which Hardison carefully sets aside, Neosporin; hand sanitizer, which he guiltily and belated uses; and five more 8-ounce bags of water.

That gives him a jolt. Six cups of water, for two people, means Moreau didn't think the team would find them fast. _Busy week_, Scott had said, and they meant Hardison and Eliot to keep Nate busy during it.

Hardison grabs at that first, spilled bag, almost empty, and carefully folds it closed. He's thirsty, now that he's thinking about it. It's warm in here. Moreau is wrong—has to be wrong. Rescue is on the way, or at least on the way to being on the way. But he's the hacker on this team. And without him, there's no hope they've traced the comms unit.

They'll find another way; Nate always has a plan. But…Better to wait, is all.

There's no food at all.

He picks up the needle kit instead, then stops. It's best if he does this while Eliot's unconscious, obviously. In the five years they've been a team, he's seen Eliot shot, punched, kicked, suffocated, and tased. He's never heard the man scream before. If it happens again, he's not going to be able to keep going.

But if help is on the way, he probably shouldn't do it at all. And help _is_ on the way. It is.

He can at least wait until the next radio check. Eliot will be awake by then, or he can get Parker to look up some instructions and read them to him. He checks his watch, and he's startled to see he still has nearly an hour to go.

He wants to pace. He needs to move. He needs to check the battery on that lamp. He needs to try the door, just in case. He needs to find the _airholes_ in this box.

He needs to pick those cuffs.

He checks his watch again.

He looks at the walls. There's a patch of rust in the far corner. Maybe a weak spot. He pulls out the tweezers and carefully, gently, raises his right hand.

Eliot moans. His eyelids flutter, then open. He jerks back, pulling Hardison in as his right hand forms a fist.

"Eliot!" Hardison yelps. "It's me. Just me."

Eliot blinks at him, uncurling his fist. He gives Hardison a wry smile, like he's embarrassed at his reaction. Slowly, he props himself on one arm, ignoring Hardison's attempts to help. Then he pulls up his shirt, peeling off the bandage and checking it.

"Bastard," he mutters.

"I did the best I could," Hardison tells him, stung.

"Not you," Eliot says. His voice is raspy, but stronger than it was. "You did good. Moreau. Or Scott, I don't know. Both."

"He shot you," Hardison says.

Eliot snorts. "I noticed. But I meant the QuickClot."

"It worked."

"Mmm. The new formula don't burn like that. Old one's…hard to get. He did it on purpose."

"Bastard," Hardison agrees. "You okay?"

Eliot looks at him.

"I mean, what do you need?" Hardison clarifies. "There's no painkillers. Some Neosporin, though?"

Eliot snorts again. "Right."

He shuts his eyes.

"Eliot?"

"What?" Eliot asks, eyes still closed.

"How bad is it?"

Eliot doesn't answer right away. Then he opens his eyes, smiles, and says, "Don't worry about it."

Hardison's heart sinks.


	2. Chapter 2

"More water," Hardison urges, folding Eliot's fingers around the bag.

Eliot's hand is cold and clammy. Hardison doesn't let go; they can't afford another spill.

Eliot doesn't try to shake him off, just raises the bag and takes a sip, then leans his head back against the wall. Hardison takes the water before it can fall. Eliot's hands wrap themselves over the bandage on his stomach like they're drawn there by magnets.

"You need more fluids," Hardison tells him. "I think you're in shock."

"Stomach hurts," Eliot says.

"Did I ever tell you have a real gift for understatement?" Hardison asks.

He lifts the water to Eliot's mouth. Eliot sips.

"Your turn," Eliot tells him.

"I can wait awhile," Hardison says.

Eliot's shrug is almost undetectable. Hardison gives in.

The water is warm and tastes of the plastic bag and it is the best thing Hardison's had in weeks, at least. Which is ridiculous—it's warm in here, yeah, but he'd had an orange soda and a coffee just that morning. He doesn't need this. He stops himself after a couple of slowly cherished swallows.

"Your turn," he says.

"You finish it," Eliot mumbles.

He isn't bothering to open his eyes. Hardison doesn't like it.

Exhaustion is understandable. Eliot's obviously in bad shape; Hardison isn't expecting him to feel chatty. It's the apathy that's wrong. Like Eliot's given up.

"Eliot," he says. "They're going to find us."

"Mmm," Eliot acknowledges.

Hardison checks his watch again.

"Five minutes," he says. "Come on, man. Stay awake. Nate's going to want to talk to you."

"Mmm."

Hardison checks Eliot's pulse again. He's getting better at finding it, but it still doesn't tell him anything he didn't already know.

Eliot's in trouble. And there is nothing Hardison can do about it.

"I hate this," Hardison says.

Eliot doesn't bother answering. His head is slipping to the side, his body resting heavy against Hardison's. Hardison can feel the tremors still running through him.

"Wake up," Hardison says.

Eliot shifts a little.

"Wake _up_," Hardison says again.

And maybe he is being unfair. Maybe Eliot ain't giving up on anything; he never has before. Eliot is in pain and he is down an alarming amount of blood, but it's all fixable. It's going to be fine.

Except: Hardison is locked in a goddamned box and the team is coming but they ain't _here_ and the lamp is too hot and bright, and the walls are too close, and he just _cannot_, okay?

"You're so selfish," Hardison says. "I know you got shot and all, but it ain't no reason to throw yourself a pity party. Did you even think about _me_? No. It's all about you, isn't it. Well, you are not the only one locked up in here, Eliot. And not that you'd know what it's like, but I am a sensitive man, Eliot. A sensitive man. You know what it'd do to me to be locked in this box handcuffed to a corpse? I might never recover."

Eliot stirs again, and his trembling intensifies. Hardison has to look at Eliot's face to see he's holding back a laugh.

"If I was gonna die of blood loss I'd be doing it by now," Eliot says. "'m tired, Hardison. Deal with it."

It's mumbly, but it's the longest speech Eliot's given in an hour. Hardison lets himself be reassured.

He does not let himself think about what else Eliot expects to die of. He hums songs from Dr. Horrible instead.

"Hardison?" Parker's voice comes through in a burst of static.

"Oh, thank God," Hardison says. "Where are you? Where are _we_?"

"We're looking," Parker says. "How's Eliot?"

"Here," Eliot says.

"What?" Parker asks. "I couldn't hear that. Hardison, is he okay?"

"No," Hardison says. "But he says hi. Please tell me you at least have a lead."

It's Nate who answers. "We think they took you in a helicopter. Sophie's trying to find a flight plan now, but you know…there might not be one."

And grifting takes time.

"We have a radius already," Parker says encouragingly. "But there's a lot of ports. We need a way to narrow it down. Can you hear anything? Any activity?"

"Container ships have crews," Nate puts in. "I want you to bang on the walls. Yell. See what happens."

"The shot made plenty of noise," Hardison says. "And—and we made some too."

"So, either the crew belongs to Moreau, or they just can't hear you," Nate says. "How sure are you that you're on a ship?"

"We're at sea," Eliot says, slightly louder. "I can feel us moving."

Hardison can too. It's been making him feel sick, although that could also be the sheer terror.

"Eliot," Nate says, audibly relieved. "How are you holding up?"

Tired or not, Eliot has enough energy to roll his eyes at the radio.

"Hardison's a good nurse," he says, loud and clear, like it matters that Nate hears it. "Rather have a pretty one, though."

"Excuse _me_," Hardison says. "I'm not pretty enough for you?"

"Pretty doctor'd be even better," Eliot adds, quieter.

Which is an alarming admission from him, not that Nate acknowledges it.

"I'll see what I can do," he says. "In the meantime, Hardison, you're taking care of him? Where's he hit?"

Hardison swallows.

"His, um, abdomen."

There's a silence.

"I don't know what else to do," Hardison says. "Bleeding's under control."

"Yeah," Nate says. Hardison hears typing. "Good. Just…Do your best. Keep him, you know. Calm. Comfortable."

"I'm right here," Eliot mutters. "I can hear you."

Hardison had been hoping for something more in the way of instructions. "That's it?" he asks. "Nate, I'm serious, you got to give me something here."

"We're coming as fast as we can," Nate says. "Just sit tight."

Great.

"The password to my laptop is TW#$902PPPRZ3L$," Hardison says. "Parker, there's a folder called 'Shortcuts.' I got some snippets stored in there could help you track ship registrations. You remember how I showed you?"

He gives directions till the time runs out, hoping Parker will be able to use them. Trying not to think about how far a helicopter could go in three hours. Nate hadn't pointed out that the helicopter wouldn't have had to go to a port at all, but he must know.

It won't matter. His team is good—the best. They will figure this out.

But maybe Hardison can help.

"We should stitch you up," he says. "It's looking like the team might be a few hours. And I need that needle—the tweezers won't fit in the handcuffs. Figure we'd better use it on you _before_ we turn it into a lockpick, not after, you know?"

Eliot sighs. The irritation he'd summoned for the radio is fading, and so is the focus in his eyes.

Hardison frowns. "I'm gonna need you to talk me through it. You planning to pass out again?"

"I wish," Eliot says. "I'll do the stitches. You aren't _that_ good a nurse."

It turns out to take both of them. Eliot pauses after each stitch, and he's a little slower every time. It's weirdly intimate, touchier than they usually are with each other. Or it would be, if Hardison wasn't so busy trying not to puke: There is a _hole_ in Eliot. Hardison swallows hard and holds the edges together, forcing himself to keep his mouth closed. Eliot's going as fast as he can.

Finally, Eliot leans back, breathing out carefully through pursed lips.

Hardison wipes the blood away with another piece of gauze, then rebandages the wound. "Better?"

"You gonna panic if I take a nap?" Eliot asks. "I know you're _sensitive_."

"Just make sure you wake up again," Hardison says, dead serious.

Eliot nods, shutting his eyes. His skin is waxy, and the new dark circles under his eyes make him look like he hasn't slept in weeks.

"Here," Hardison says. "Like this."

He takes Eliot's shoulder, turning him sideways and edging them both away from the blood on the floor, then guides Eliot down as gently as he can until his head is resting on Hardison's thigh. Eliot's face doesn't relax completely—he's obviously in too much pain for that—but his breathing slows a little and his hands loosen over the bandage. Hardison brushes the hair off Eliot's forehead.

He waits a few minutes, watching Eliot slip deeper into what Hardison hopes is a nap and not some kind of coma. Then he cleans the blood from the needle and gets to work.

Parker would have done this in an instant, almost as soon as the locks were closed. Hardison struggles. Moreau buys good equipment, and lockpicking is just not his primary skill set. He even tries going around it and severing the chain itself—he has the scissors to use as a lever to pry at the links—but it's obvious he's only going to stab himself or Eliot, so he gives up.

It's so quiet here.

Eliot's breathing, slightly labored, is a comfort and a worry, but Hardison can hear his own heart thudding with nerves. He shuts his eyes and tries to meditate, but his brain is crowded with _what if_ and _when_ and _I don't want to die here_, so he gives up and pictures Parker instead.

She is dangling from a harness, hair steaming down around his face, kissing him with an impish smile, pleased to have startled him. She reaches out and runs a hand gently down his cheek, then his neck. The room is cool, and the lighting is soft, and they have nowhere to be and nothing to do. Eliot is cooking in the other room, chicken parm, or no, steak frites. Barbecued ribs, maybe.

Damn, he is hungry. _And it's only day one_, he reminds himself. But it's fine. The team is coming. Parker is coming. Won't hurt him any to miss a meal.

He exhales and pictures Parker picking a lock instead. Not on the job, just on his couch. Hardison is building IDs, making sure to choose the dorkiest pictures possible for Eliot and Nate, and Parker is half-watching, half just humming to herself as the locks fall open under her hands. When he photoshops a bowl cut onto Eliot, she snorts with laughter.

_Click_.

He did it. He actually managed it.

Hardison wants to jump up and cheer, and he _can_. He peels off his sweatshirt, wrinkling his nose at the blood and sweat soaked into the sleeves, and slides it under Eliot's head as he pulls his leg away.

It feels _so good_ to stand up and stretch. Hardison hops a little from leg to leg, letting the pins and needles from Eliot's head fade. He jogs in place. He does a little shuffle.

"_Yes_," he whisper-shouts. "Who da man? You da man."

"Hardison?" Sophie asks loudly, making him jump. "What's happening?"

He scrambles for the radio, still in the sweatshirt under Eliot's head, and decides not to mention exactly how long it took him to pick one lock.

"Nothing," he whispers. "Got out of the cuffs."

"Cuffs?" Sophie echoes. "Never mind. How's Eliot holding up? And why are you whispering?"

"He's sleeping," Hardison says, in a normal voice, trying not to worry when Eliot doesn't stir. "I mean, I hope he's sleeping. He said he was gon' wake up, so…He's breathing, anyway. Is Parker there? Is anything happening?"

"She and Nate stepped out for a bit," Sophie says apologetically. "I'm afraid we don't have an update for you yet, Hardison. We're all working on it as hard as we can."

"Yeah," Hardison says, kicking at the wall of the container. "Well. Eliot's just sleeping, so…"

"How are _you_ managing?" Sophie asks.

She's using her kindest voice. Hardison relaxes into it even as he wishes she didn't think it was necessary.

"Fine," Hardison says. "I didn't get shot."

"But you're in a confined space," Sophie said. "I know that isn't easy. I can talk you through some breathing exercises, if it would help."

"I haven't had time to think about it much," Hardison says. "Maybe later. How long do you think this is going to take?"

There's a pause.

"Just tell me," Hardison pushes. "Be honest. I need to know what to expect here. Do I got to ration what's left of the water?"

Another pause.

"It's a big ocean," Sophie says. "We _will_ find you. But it might be best if you prepare for a bit of a wait. Can you do that?"

_No_, Hardison thinks.

Saying that won't get them rescued any faster.

"Have I ever told you how _sick_ I am of being rescued?" he asks. "I mean, don't let that slow you down or nothing, but it's seriously getting old. Next time I want to be the one doing the rescuing. Tell Nate that's the new plan M."

He tugs at the door, then kicks it.

"Good, Hardison," Sophie says. "Anger can be helpful."

"I don't need help _managing my feelings_," Hardison snaps. "I need _help_. Eliot needs help."

"I know," Sophie says, and damn it, she's using her con voice again. "But this is what I have."

The door is solid. So are the walls. All this freedom, and he's still stuck in a damned box. He tries kicking at it, then slamming his shoulder into it. All he gets is a sore shoulder and a fresh dose of fear—Eliot doesn't even stir.

He angles the lamp low against the wall, hoping it'll cool things off in here, then sees Eliot shiver and repositions it again. And again, because cooking the guy can't be doing him any favors.

Every hour, as promised, the radio connects.

Every hour, Sophie is there, soothing and apologetic, _understanding_. She doesn't say where Nate and Parker went. Maybe she doesn't know. Maybe they're in trouble.

Maybe they're on their way and she's trying not to get his hopes up.

Finally, he tries screaming.


	3. Chapter 3

_CW: There is some vomiting. It's not the focus of the story, so you can skim over it, but heads up if that's something that bothers you. Overall warning: This continues to be some pretty intense hurt/comfort, but if you've read this far you know to expect that._

* * *

No one answers.

Of course, no one answers. They're alone in a box, on a ship. The engines are running, but Hardison knows only too well that that don't mean anyone's at the helm. It's not like Moreau would care whether they sank or whether they sailed on forever to become some kind of grisly urban legend, the Skeletons in the Box, circling the globe for eternity

He yells "Hey" and "Hello" and "Anybody" and "Come and torture us then, just come in here and shut me up."

He yells till it hurts. His fists ache from slamming against the metal and his chest aches from trying not to hyperventilate and Hardison kicks the door and yells again. Again.

He stops.

Eliot is awake, squinting at him with pity in his eyes.

"I had to try," Hardison rasps.

Eliot smiles, that sweet pained smile he has sometimes. He tries to push himself up, then falls back, grimacing.

"Eliot. How do you feel?" Hardison asks, bending over him.

Eliot ignores the question, but his pulse is pounding hard and fast. It's not normal, but it is at least stronger than before, which feels like it must be a good thing. Or maybe wishful thinking.

"You want me to help you sit up?"

Eliot considers that for so long Hardison's not sure he understood the question. "In a minute."

Hardison sits, trying not to loom over Eliot. Eliot looks at him, that same assessing look Hardison's seen so many times, only…slower. Like it takes energy Eliot doesn't have.

"You picked the cuffs."

"Finally," Hardison grins. "Took me forever. But what happens in the container, stays in the container, okay? I got a reputation to uphold here. Age of the geek, baby."

"…Sure."

Hardison chews his lip. His mouth is ridiculously dry. He looks at the water, then back at Eliot.

"All yours," Eliot says.

"Thing is, Sophie said maybe we ought to take that slow. Just in case, you know, it happens to take a while."

Another pause. Hardison's brain is racing, overclocking with worry, but it looks like Eliot's thoughts are going snail mail.

He is listening, though. He shakes his head. "Drink."

"They're going to find us," Hardison says. "You know they will. You do know that, right?"

"They're good," Eliot says. "I know you're scared, but…. got to give them time to work it out."

Hardison knows that. He also knows it doesn't matter if he's patient or not. He has no ability to rush the team or slow the team down or do anything at all useful.

"And we got all the time in the world, here?" he asks.

Hardison can taste the bitterness on his tongue. God, he wants that water.

"Drink," Eliot says. "Don't start dehydrated. Won't help. And…try to take it easy."

Which is not what Hardison meant, and Eliot knows it. Hardison picks up the open bag, weighing it. Three left, after this, and it's only the first day. First night, now.

"Do you need some?"

Eliot shakes his head. "…Not…a good idea."

So Hardison drinks, slow as he can. Why has he not appreciated water before? The iron of the Boston tap water, the pure perfection of that fancy stuff Sophie buys sometimes. The softness of the Brita water in the team fridge. They're all miracles. Even this plasticky stale shit is better than he'd ever have given it credit for.

When he's done, he folds the bag and sets it neatly in the far corner, which he's decided will have to do for trash and…and anything else.

He does feel better. He's less frantic, not feeling the need to pace off every inch of this damn container. He sits back down next to Eliot, looking around for something else to do.

"Want to sit up?" he offers again.

"When's the next call?"

"Not for a while."

"I miss anything?"

"While you was getting your beauty sleep, you mean? What happened to three hours a day, huh? Nah, bro. Sorry."

If Eliot had missed anything, that would mean something was happening out there. But he tells Eliot about talking to Sophie, how she'd offered _breathing exercises_ and he'd snapped at her.

"She gets it," Eliot says. "Don't worry."

He shifts a little, and his face spasms. His hands fly back to his stomach. Hardison waits for him to control his breathing. It takes a full minute.

Hardison pulls the first aid kit over and goes through it again. Still no painkillers.

Eliot shifts again.

Hardison looks at him. There's a streak of dried blood just below Eliot's ear, brown and flaking. He wipes it off with hand sanitizer and gauze, then tucks Eliot's hair behind his ear.

Eliot's eyes follow him, amused. "Thanks."

Hardison's hands freeze in Eliot's hair. "Why are you being nice?"

Eliot blinks.

"Eliot. I mean it. Why are you—you're supposed to be telling me how useless I am."

Eliot's eyes travel pointedly across the empty container, the complete lack of progress Hardison has made at escaping this. He shrugs.

"You ain't been entirely useless. This time. Considering."

"Damn it, Eliot! Stop being supportive!"

Eliot stares at him, surprised, then barks out a laugh.

It's a mistake.

Eliot folds around his stomach, grimacing.

Hardison watches, one hand uselessly patting at Eliot's shoulder, his hair, his shoulder again.

Eliot's not laughing anymore, but the spasm doesn't stop.

"Eliot?"

His breath comes out in short, whooping gasps, stuttering and uneven.

"Eliot, come on. Eliot. _Eliot_. Just breathe through it, man. Eliot. Don't do—you are not dying, Eliot. You're not."

Finally, Eliot relaxes, a little at a time, like he's willing his muscles to loosen. His breathing slows, gets quieter.

"Not yet," he says. "Just…hurts."

Hardison exhales, drops his head to his hand. It's probably the best answer he can hope for. "Not ever."

Eliot doesn't bother answering, which is fair. Ain't the kind of thing any of them can exactly promise, even without the current circumstances.

Hardison shivers. Time to focus on the positive.

"How do you think they'll find us?" he asks.

Eliot sighs. "They will."

"But what do you think they're doing? I gave Parker some instructions, you know. She's learned a lot. Maybe she can—"

"Moreau ain't as smart as he thinks," Eliot says, a little louder. It's his comms voice.

"You think he's listening?" Hardison whispers.

Eliot lifts a hand from his stomach, waggles it. Drops it back. He's shaking again, Hardison realizes.

"Hey, you still cold?"

Eliot doesn't bother answering that either.

But it _is_ getting cooler in the container—the sun must have gone down a while ago, and even with two people and one too-bright light, the thing ain't exactly insulated.

"Don't go anywhere," he tells Eliot.

Eliot raises his eyebrows, as if to say _The hell you think I'm going?_

The lamp is hot. It was a problem all day, and if he was smart, Hardison would have shut the thing off. He probably _should _have—who knows how good the battery on that thing is. But…well, if he was going to be sitting in here in the dark, he at least needed time to get used to the idea.

Most of the heat is coming from the lightbulb, of course. But the lamp itself is warm—he waves his hand behind it to confirm. And if he aims it at the wall, some of the warmth will bounce back without putting Eliot under a spotlight.

There. A nice warm zone in the making, with a clean(ish) patch of floor just waiting for them. Eliot will only have to move a couple of feet.

He places the lamp carefully, then turns to Eliot. He's staring into space again, but at least he's awake. And he's about to feel much—well, at least a little—better.

"Okay, I'm just gonna help you move a bit," Hardison says, bending over.

Carefully, he slides his hand under Eliot's shoulders.

Eliot jolts, surprised, and tries to pull away. Hardison holds him automatically, easily. Way too easily.

"It's all right," he says. "It's just me. Gonna get you warmed up, okay?"

Eliot blinks. He stops fighting.

"'m I late?"

The calls seem to go through on their own, but Eliot was half-conscious at best earlier. He might have missed that.

"We can't be late," Hardison says. "It doesn't work like that."

Eliot's forehead creases.

"I don't…why are you here?" he asks, voice blurred.

Hardison pulls back like Eliot hit him.

"Eliot?" he says. "Hey, do you remember what's happening?"

Eliot looks at him, blank. Hardison feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

Eliot's frowning now, angry or worried—Hardison's not sure there's much of a difference.

He plasters on a wide smile.

"It's not important," he tells Eliot. "Everything's fine. We're not late at all. We are right on schedule."

Eliot relaxes a fraction.

Hardison can handle this. He can totally handle this. He takes a full minute to breathe in slowly through his nose, trying to get in character as someone who is not at all about to cry or panic or otherwise fuck this up.

"Eliot, listen carefully. I need you to trust me for a minute."

Hardison waits, hoping the words will sink in.

"Course," Eliot mumbles.

Hardison bites his lip and tries a few more calming breaths.

"Eliot, I'm going to help you move a little," he says. "Not far. It might—it's going to hurt a bit, but then it'll be better."

Slowly, Hardison slides his arm back under Eliot's shoulders, raising him gently off the floor.

Eliot tenses, but he doesn't fight again.

"It's Hardison, Eliot, remember?" Hardison says. "Don't hit me. No, it's okay, you don't have to help. Just let me slide you over a little, that's all. Just relax. My arm's going to go under your knees now, but that's cool, I'm not gonna get frisky with you—oof, you're heavy."

Eliot grunts when Hardison moves him, his whole body twisting in an attempt to escape the pain.

"Hey, no, I gotcha," Hardison says. "Just try to hold still. You're doing great, man. Here. This is it, Eliot, we're done."

He leans Eliot's back against the wall, then steadies him there. They're both out of breath, and Eliot's face is mushroom white, damp and almost colorless.

"Damn it, Hardison," Eliot pants.

"Yeah, yeah," Hardison tells him. "I know. Almost done, man."

He doubles back the step it takes to pick up the radio and his abandoned sweatshirt. When he turns back, Eliot's already slipping a little to the side.

Which is fine. Hardison wasn't going to leave him like that anyway. He tucks the sweatshirt over Eliot like it's a blanket.

"It's Hardison," he repeats as he lifts Eliot's head away from the wall and slides in behind him, settling his friend against his chest.

"Who else would you be?" Eliot mutters. "Jesus. You wanted…to get cozy, could have asked."

Hardison smiles, then brushes Eliot's hair out of his mouth. "You back with me, man?"

Eliot makes an angry noise, then shifts a little, letting his head rest back on Hardison's shoulder. Hardison can feel Eliot's back muscles working, helping him breath. "Least you're warm."

"You're welcome." Hardison hesitates, then gives in and rubs the outside of Eliot's arms.

They're already warmer. Frowning, he feels Eliot's forehead. Warm. Really warm. He frowns. Infection…shouldn't be a surprise, under the circumstances. Still, it's only been a few hours.

"How do you feel?" he asks.

Eliot sighs. "Like I got shot. Stop asking."

"I mean it," Hardison pushes. "I know it hurts. But you have a fever. Already."

He reaches for Eliot's wrist, ready to check his pulse again. Eliot pulls his hand away.

"Eliot."

"Gut wound," Eliot says quietly. "Lots of bacteria. Get to a hospital quick, odds are good…. Don't..."

"Oh," Hardison says. "But there's still time."

Eliot's shoulder blades shift, an exhausted version of a shrug.

"Saw it take a week once," he says. "Usually…less."

Eliot's seen people die like this before. He's seen it often enough to work out some averages. Often enough that he at least partly accepts his fate.

"Moreau do this a lot?"

Eliot's shifts like he's trying to pull away, then hisses and drops his head back against Hardison's collarbone. His breathing speeds up with the effort, raspy and harsh.

"Hey, no," Hardison says. "Don't. You don't have to talk about it. Forget I asked."

Eliot's breath doesn't slow, but he stops trying to physically flee the conversation.

The silence feels weighted. Eliot's obviously waiting for Hardison to ask again, make him relive something he shouldn't have lived to begin with.

Hardison just wants to take the question back.

He stares at Eliot's hand, fisted against his thigh. He studies the far wall. He thinks about what he'd like to do with this damn box when he's out of it. It's going to require some professional crushing equipment, but they can work that out. Maybe he'll even let Eliot drive, for some of it.

His stomach growls.

"So," Hardison finally says. "How 'bout those Red Sox?"

Eliot's hand loosens its grip. "Seriously?"

Hardison's stomach growls again, loudly enough Eliot must hear it. It's not that Hardison's great about regular mealtimes, but it is well past dinner by now, and the donut he had in the office that morning was not the best choice for pre-kidnapping food.

He should have had eggs and bacon. Or French toast, maybe, with cinnamon. Or chicken-fried steak with gravy—the pub offers that, weekends. He could make it a daily special, when he gets home.

"We should do a breakfast special," he says.

Eliot turns to look at him, a bit of that lost look in his eyes, and Hardison holds his breath.

"We do," Eliot says. "Don't you…read your own menus?"

Hardison lets himself relax, just a little.

"Excuse you," Hardison tells him. "Who orders your free-range eggs, man?"

"Me."

Which is true, but only because he's freakishly picky about the suppliers.

"Well, then who handles the invoices?"

"Me."

"_Sometimes_ you," Hardison admits. "But I know what's on the menu, man. I meant we should do it every day. When I first left Nana's, there was this bar I used to go to? Dive of a place, could only fit about forty people if they crammed in like sardines, which they did on karaoke night. And it turned out they had a 2.99 breakfast every weekday, and it was generous damn servings too. I used to go camp out on their Wi-Fi like three times a week."

"You order drinks?" Eliot asks.

"Sometimes," Hardison said. "Mostly coffee. But they had other regulars."

Eliot adjusts a little, trying to get comfortable.

"We'd lose money," Eliot points out.

"Yeah, but I could do breakfast beers," Hardison points out. "Oatmeal stout. Oatmeal _chocolate_ stout."

His stomach growls again.

Eliot's hair falls across his face, and he lifts his hand to brush it off, then seems to tire and lets it drop. A sharp ache tears through Hardison's chest.

"Biscuits and gravy," Eliot says.

"You do make good gravy," Hardison says, tucking Eliot's hair behind his ear. He lets his fingers rest on Eliot's head for a moment, not measuring anything, just there.

Breakfast burgers," Hardison suggests, clearing his throat. "With eggs on 'em. And, like, onion rings? And that fry sauce. And hash browns. Or…shrimp and grits? Like Cajun style. Beignets. People in Portland got plenty of donuts, they might want to branch out. And Parker's hot chocolate. With real whipped cream."

Eliot shakes his head, and Hardison stops petting him.

"Quit torturing yourself."

"I can't help it," Hardison admits. "My mouth is watering just thinking about it. I feel like something out of Looney Toons. Just, like, pork chops dancing 'round my head, teasing me. Oh man, pork chops. Haven't had those in a long time."

Eliot sighs.

"Peanut butter and banana stuffed French toast," Hardison decides. "And eggs Benedict."

"Gonna have to raise the prices."

"Nah, it'd be, like, a public service. We could do oatmeal too, if you want. That steel-cut kind you like. That's not bad. It's filling. And you can put toppings on it. We could have a toppings bar! Chocolate chips, and almonds, and cinnamon, and raisins for the health nuts. Honey. Peanut butter. This could be a real hit, Eliot."

"Uh-huh."

"You never give me credit, man. And we'd make money on the drinks. Not just the breakfast beers. We could do breakfast cocktails. All the brunch places do them. Parker and I had hard ice cream shakes last week, remember? They were great. It was that new place on Hawthorne? I'll take you there when we get home. It's next to the Indian place you like, with the curry? Oh man, _curry_. We'll go there too. Not the same day. Or, we could."

Eliot shifts his head farther onto Hardison's shoulder with a soft grunt of effort, then turns to look up at him. He must be the only person on the planet who can be in this much pain and still manage to look sarcastic.

"Shut up," Hardison tells him.

Eliot's mouth twitches.

Hardison scowls as dramatically as he can, which is damn dramatic if he does have to say it himself.

The radio crackles.

"Hello?" Parker asks. "Hardison? Alec? Hello?"

Hardison feels his first genuine smile in hours spread across his face.

"Right here, mama," he says. "Where've you been?"

"Stealing a helicopter," Parker says.

"Three helicopters, actually," Nate says. "And we rented them."

"_Right_," Parker says. "We 'rented' them. How are you?"

Hardison drops the smile. "Eliot—"

"It's torture," Eliot says, so bluntly Hardison almost drops the radio. "Hardison won't shut up."

"Eliot!" Parker squeals. "Was that Eliot? Is he awake? Tell him to talk louder."

Eliot's back tenses as he struggles for a deeper breath.

Hardison raises an eyebrow and moves the handset closer instead. Eliot looks at him for a long beat, then gives a tiny, grateful nod.

"Hey, Parker," he says.

"Eliot! Sophie said you wouldn't be awake."

"Yeah, well," Eliot says. "Hard'son's boring me to death."

"Eliot, you know I can't tell you the plan," Nate says. "This is not a secure line. But you're going to have to put up with him a little longer. Can you do that?"

He's talking slower than usual; Eliot's not fooling them. Hardison's relieved and sad all at once. Eliot doesn't seem to notice the change in tone.

"He's 'bout to…do his Forrest Gump impression," Eliot says. "Again."

"Okay, A of all, I don't even like shrimp," Hardison says. "And two, my Tom Hanks is _on point_. But seriously, if y'all wanted to bring a sandwich or two when you come? Like, in the _ambulance_? Could be a lifesaver. I mean it. Eliot here's starting to look tastier than a Uruguayan rugby player."

"Hardison, it's been less than 24 hours," Sophie interjects. "It might be just a little early to resort to cannibalism, don't you think?"

"I have a high metabolism!" Hardison says. Then, because he has to say it: "I need _pretzels_."

"I know," Parker says. Hardison can hear the smile in her voice. "They're coming. Soon."

"Pretzels and a sandwich, got it," Nate says. "Listen, we're going to get cut off soon. One of us will check in every hour, but try to get some sleep. Tomorrow's a big day."

Tomorrow.

Eliot shuts his eyes.

* * *

Hardison doesn't sleep.

For one thing—and he tells himself this is the main issue—this is a _box_. It is built for shipping TVs and tennis shoes, not for passenger comforts like beds or cushions or bathrooms. Hardison misses his toothbrush.

Also, it smells in here. The place ain't air-tight, which is a blessing Hardison is _not_ forgetting, but there's not exactly any breeze in here either, and the air is thick with blood and sweat and other things turned sour. Hardison can smell himself—never a good hygiene development—and he is pretty sure that if Parker were here right now, she would hold her nose when she hugged him. And that's not counting the reek coming off Eliot, who is conveniently right under Hardison's nose.

Which is another thing. Eliot is not exactly a substitute for a blanket. He's hot enough—hotter all the damn time, which Hardison is _not thinking about right now_—but he's heavy as a…well, heavy as a grown-ass, overmuscled man. Hardison has a metal wall for a freaking backrest and a seriously awkward weight pressing him right into it. His right butt cheek is numb, his hips ache, and while it's nice, having Eliot's head against his biceps, where Hardison can watch his face? Eliot's damn _head_ is heavy. Every thirty seconds, Hardison wants to move his arm or shift his legs—he could be getting a blood clot from this, dammit—but lately every time he gives in, Eliot moans in goddamned pain.

Which is another thing Hardison is trying not to think about.

Eliot is tough. Too tough, a lot of lot of the time. Hardison hasn't really fallen for that act in years, and he still doesn't really get why Eliot even _bothers_—if Hardison were the hurt one here, a few moans would have been the _least_ of it. He'd probably send them both deaf with his hollering.

So it's not like he thinks Eliot should suffer in silence. Let the man have a good cry, that's his attitude. It always makes Hardison feel better.

Problem is, Eliot doesn't see things that way.

So, when Eliot starts moaning softly somewhere about 3 a.m. and doesn't even follow it up with a complaint about Hardison's bony lap, Hardison's can't just put it down to Eliot being a normal human: The pain's gotten that much worse, or Eliot doesn't know he's doing it.

Or both.

Eliot's awake, or at least Hardison thinks so. His eyes are open, most of the time. Hardison's been trying to keep him talking, or at least to keep him listening and looking annoyed enough to prove it, but it's getting harder. Eliot missed the last check-in entirely, too busy staring into the corner like someone had mounted an HDTV. Or something like that.

"Let him sleep," Nate had said, and Hardison had pointed out that Eliot was not sleeping, he was staring, and by the way, where the hell was that rescue?

_Stay calm, my ass_, Hardison thinks.

"…and I think the Raiders defense really doesn't get enough credit," is what he says out loud. "Right, Eliot?"

Eliot shifts again, but not like he's getting ready to answer.

"Really the best in the league," Hardison tells him. "Except for the Bears, of course."

"What?" Eliot mumbles, eyes drooping again.

He licks his lips and swallows with a grimace.

"Okay, your turn," Hardison says. "Best defense in the NFL?"

"Dammit, Har-Hardison…Jus'…go play with your orcs…or bother…Parker."

Eliot shoves at him, weakly, and tries to pull away.

"Eliot," Hardison says, and then stops. "Not right now, man."

Eliot scowls. "Leave me 'lone."

"In a minute," Hardison tells him, hoping the delirium will pass before Eliot calls him on it. It did before. This doesn't mean anything, really. Not anything new.

He puts the back of his hand against Eliot's cheek.

Eliot jerks his head away, almost managing to fall entirely. Hardison grabs Eliot's arms to steady him, which sets off another moan.

"Sorry," Hardison says. "Sorry. You got a hell of a fever, Eliot."

"What?"

Hardison risks letting go of Eliot long enough to grab for one of the water bags. He carefully guides the bag to Eliot's mouth. Eliot's clumsy even when all he has to do is swallow—a few drops run out of his mouth and down his cheek, where Hardison half-expects to see them boil. Slowly, Eliot manages a few sips.

"More?"

"Cold," Eliot says, then opens his mouth like a child.

Hardison has to close his eyes for a moment. Then he gently raises the water to Eliot's lips.

Eliot drinks like it hurts to swallow.

He manages a quarter of the bag before he stiffens, pulling his head away in another minor spill.

Hardison rescues the water, leaning it carefully against the wall. Eliot squeezes his eyes closed. He's starting to shake again.

"Eliot?"

"Sick," mumbles Eliot.

"Yeah," Hardison sighs. "I know you're sick."

"Cold," Eliot adds. "What's? …Cold."

The shaking's getting worse. Hardison can feel Eliot's body tensing with it, hear his teeth start to chatter. Hardison's more than a little surprised Eliot's body still has the energy. He thinks about turning the lamp, getting Eliot a little more heat, but Eliot's burning with fever—Hardison's worried more heat might actually kill him.

Instead, he wraps his arms around Eliot, pulling him into a bear hug, and prays to anyone who might be listening that these violent shakes aren't the start of an actual seizure.

"Hang on," he says. "It'll pass."

"Cold," Eliot says again, but not like he'd heard.

"Hardison?" It's Nate.

Eliot moans.

"What's—Eliot?"

"Hang on, Nate," Hardison says.

Eliot's head catches Hardison's chin hard enough to make him bite his lip.

"Ow! Shh, Eliot, it's okay. Just breathe through it. Come on, you're okay," Hardison says. "Nate, wait a minute."

"Gonna…" Eliot says, and then he arches away, quicker than Hardison thought he could move, so quick Hardison almost loses his grip, and throws up noisily on the floor.

"Hardison, what's happening there?" Nate asks.

Hardison ignores him. He has to—Eliot is still heaving, doubled over, his hands pressed to his stomach—and Hardison is all that's keeping him from falling into the mess.

Finally, it ends. Eliot sags against Hardison's arms, and Hardison manages to shift his weight back toward Hardison's lap. Eliot's gasping, mouth working like a fish as he tries to catch his breath.

"Breathe," Hardison says. "You've got this. Just breathe."

Eliot does. After a while, he blinks and looks at Hardison. Or toward him. Whatever, Hardison will absolutely take it.

"Better?" Hardison asks.

A slow blink. Hardison decides to take it as a yes.

"Nate, are you still here?"

He's not. Hardison feels a pang of regret about that—he _needs_ those calls, frustrating as they are. But one tiny, terrible part of his mind thinks: _Good_. Hardison's been watching Eliot suffer minute by minute, hour by hour, with help and no break. Nate's been getting five-minute windows on Eliot trying to sound like he's fine, and Hardison thinks Nate doesn't believe his entirely accurate reports of Eliot's actual condition. It'll do him good to get a little firsthand knowledge.

He hopes Parker wasn't listening.

Hardison looks at Eliot's face, white tinged with yellow, beaded with sweat and saliva. At his hands, still pressed to the bandage. His glassy eyes are wandering, darting to the corner.

"We need to get you cleaned up," Hardison says.

He considers the situation. He can use the gauze from the kit; there's still plenty of that, and he won't have to get up—or put Eliot down—to get it. But that's not the only mess, and they can't—Hardison can't—stay like this. There is a limit, and that is his.

Very gently, trying not to let the moans slow him down and drag this out, he lays Eliot on the floor. He thinks about using the sweatshirt as a pillow again, but the thing smells foul. Maybe the cool of the floor will help with Eliot's fever.

Hardison hesitates, listening to Eliot's labored breaths. He doesn't want to turn his back, even for a second.

"I'm going to be as quick as I can," he says.

Eliot isn't even looking at him.

Bad as it is to step away, it feels treacherously good to have Eliot off his lap. Hardison doesn't do a happy dance again—he's not a monster. But he does allow himself a quick stretch, eyes on Eliot's chest as it rises and falls.

Then it's time for the gross part. It could be worse—Eliot's vomit looks surprisingly like coffee grounds, even if that's not how it smells. He dumps it in the trash corner, hoping a couple of feet of distance will do at least some good, then squirts the hand sanitizer on the floor and scrubs at that, which at least surrounds him with a new, cleaner smell. He sniffs at the bottle, then decides to keep the hand sanitizer accessible for future smell emergencies.

For Eliot, he wastes some water, dabbing his face clean gently, trying not to snare Eliot's stubble with the gauze. Eliot leans into it, eyes closing.

"Feel good?" Hardison asks.

"Mmm."

He cuts a fresh square of gauze and wets it more generously. The water's on the cold side—the whole container is, at least the parts not touching Eliot. Then, folding it over, he carefully wipes at Eliot's forehead and neck.

"Mm," Eliot says again.

Hardison doubts a wet cloth is really going to achieve much in this situation—he's no doctor, all too obviously, but even he knows it's going to take surgery and some serious antibiotics. Eliot doesn't seem to be getting noticeably cooler. It obviously feels good, though, so it's more than worth the water.

Especially when, after a few minutes, Eliot opens his eyes and looks right at him.

"Hard'son?"

"Yes! I mean. Hi, Eliot."

Eliot blinks. Hardison reminds himself to tone down his relief. Calm and soothing, those are the watchwords.

"Water," Eliot says.

Hardison hesitates. It's not—just—about wasting the water. Eliot can drink all of it, every last drop, if it will help. It's about the coffee grounds, and the fact Hardison knows that wasn't freaking coffee grounds.

Eliot licks his lips.

"Water?" he says again.

"Let me sit you up," Hardison tells him.

But Eliot shakes his head.

"Hurts," he says, like it's a confession.

Hardison grows a few new qualms about doing anything that might make Eliot feel sick again.

"Just a sip, okay?" he asks. "And I'm just gonna lift your head a little."

Eliot spits out the first sip so quickly Hardison thinks he's choking on it, but after that he manages a few slow, careful swallows. When Hardison lowers his head, Eliot shuts his eyes, exhausted.

Hardison tips a little more water onto the gauze and wipes at his forehead. Eliot opens his eyes.

"You should sleep," Hardison says.

Eliot shakes his head again. "Can't. Too—too many people…W—watching."

His eyes dart to the corner, then back to Hardison.

"Oh," Hardison says, trying to keep his face even.

He has a lot of questions: How long has Eliot been quietly hallucinating? Are they people he knows? Are they doing anything, or just standing in the corner like invisible creepers? Exactly how _many_ invisible creepers?

"They're all over there?" he asks, gesturing at the corner.

"Yeah," Eliot whispers.

Hardison considers that.

"No problem."

Wounds and infections and bodily fluids, those are hard. Eliot's invisible friends (or possibly enemies)? That's about the level of challenge Hardison can handle. Hell, his nana knew how to deal with it.

He scoots around to Eliot's other side, then very carefully rests Eliot's head on his leg. Facing Hardison, so there won't be room for any ghosts at all.

Hardison turns his head ostentatiously toward the corner.

"Get out of here," he says loudly, channeling Nana's authority with as much focus as he had on any real con. "Go on, you heard me. Y'all are just rude, staring at my man like that. And you: I'mma give you to the count of 10."

He counts, slowly and loudly, to six.

He looks down at Eliot and smiles, triumphant. "It worked."

Eliot frowns.

"I promise," Hardison says. "Cross my heart. It's just you and me now. And if they come back, my Nana taught me a spell. Don't laugh—that shit works, Eliot. I guarantee it."

Eliot's mouth twitches, but he does look relieved.

"Should've just told me to begin with," Hardison scolds, stroking Eliot's hair in slow, repetitive motions. "This feel okay?"

"Mmm," Eliot says, eyes half-closed.

Hardison throws in a gentle scalp massage, because it's hard to just stop channeling Nana all sudden like that.

"You want a story?"

"Are you k—kidding…or you just…can't shut up?"

"I can shut up," Hardison promises. "Get some rest. I'm right here."

* * *

"Hardison?"

Nate sounds tense.

_As well he should_, Hardison thinks, grabbing for the radio with a yawn.

"Shhh," he says. "I don't have a volume control."

"How's Eliot?" Nate asks.

Hardison can feel the heat before his hand even touches Eliot's skin.

"Hardison?" Nate asks. "Is he…?"

"Sleeping," Hardison whispers.

"Right," Nate murmurs. "Good. That's good."

"No. It's not. He has a fever," Hardison says. "A high one. He keeps getting chills, he's seeing things, he can't catch his breath. I'm pretty sure he was puking blood a while ago. He has a bullet in his guts, and I don't—I don't even know what the damage is there, 'cause you know he ain't volunteering, but I'm pretty sure most of his organs are, you know, _vital. _He needs a lot more than a nap. You better be telling me you're close."

In the quiet that follows, Hardison hears, very distinctly, the clink of a glass.

"We're going after Moreau," Nate says.

"What."

"I decided an hour ago. We can't keep playing by his rules, Hardison. You're right; it's taking too long. Damien Moreau knows where you are. He's going to tell us."

"Nate—"

"Don't tell him," Nate says. "You cannot tell Eliot. Understand? He's still got a thing about Moreau; he'll only worry if he knows."

"_I'm_ worried," Hardison says.

"But you know Moreau's only human," Nate says. "He's not some bogeyman. He's a financier with some good muscle on retainer. And he's vulnerable right now—that's why he's doing all this."

"I hope you're right."

"I'm supposed to give you to Parker now," Nate says. "I just wanted to…Well. Check in."

"Nate, are you—"

"Alec," Parker stage whispers. "Hi."

Even now, hearing her straightens Hardison's spine, lowers his shoulders out of their miserable hunch.

"Hey, babe," he says. "Listen, Nate said you guys are—"

"Don't worry about us," Parker says. "We're working the problem, that's all."

"But—"

"I'm sorry it's taking so long," Parker says.

"Hey," Hardison says. "Hey, I'm not blaming you, Parker. I'm just…I'm scared, mama."

He takes a moment to remember that this is not a private conversation, but to hell with it: Alec Hardison's never been ashamed to feel what he feels, and he is not going to start just to look tough for Nate or Sophie or Damien freaking Moreau.

"I'm really scared."

"Me too," Parker says. "I wish it were me in there—"

"_Hell, no_," Hardison says.

"—because you would have found me already. Is Eliot taking care of you?"

Hardison runs his hand through Eliot's hair. "Yeah. He is."

"I need you both to come home," Parker says. "I'm going to make sure you do. You trust me, don't you?"

"Never doubt it."

"Good," Parker says, sounding remarkably like Hardison's sixth grade math teacher when he solved an equation on the board. (Mrs. Barker had been hot in an Angela Lansbury in Bedknobs and Broomsticks kind of way, now that he thinks about it.). "Then your job is to wait."

Hardison knows there's nothing else she can really say—that is his job in this. If she _were_ here, she'd be doing it, sitting quietly and doing whatever Parker does when she sits for hours in an airduct.

Well, no, she'd have opened the damn door somehow and gotten Eliot out by now, because she's Parker, but if she couldn't do that, she'd wait. Hardison's the one who can't even get a haircut without a phone in his hand.

As if she can hear his thoughts, Parker sighs. "I spy, with my little eye, something…orange."

Hardison can't help it; his chest aches with a sob but what comes out is a laugh. "Parker, I can't see you."

"I spy something orange," she repeats.

He smiles. "Is it my orange soda? Girl, wait, are you drinking my orange soda?"

"It tastes like you," Parker says. "There's plenty more. Your turn."

Hardison shakes his head, looking around at the bare walls. "Twenty questions would be better. Fine. I spy something rust-colored."

"Ooh!" Parker says, a little loud. Eliot jerks his head up, then resettles when Hardison pets him. "Is it rust? I'm really good at this."

"The best," Hardison agrees. "All right, your turn."


	4. Chapter 4

Morning doesn't exactly dawn bright and early. Or at all, from Hardison's point of view, no matter what his watch claims. This whole experience feels like one long, nightmare moment after another, no context, just Eliot shaking with cold or moaning with fever, his hands fisting and unfisting like he's fighting an actual battle and not just lying limp on Hardison's lap.

Eliot's not sleeping well either. Every few minutes his eyes open, scanning from side to side and not seeing anything. Or not anything Hardison can see. Mostly Hardison can soothe him out of it—for a single small blessing in all of this, Eliot's delirium leaves him more puzzled than threatened.

Hardison's floating in a fog of exhaustion, waiting for his next chat with Parker. (After Hardison picked rust, Eliot, walls, his own shoes, and Eliot again, Parker agreed to play Twenty Questions instead of I Spy. So far, she's picked mineral every time, and Hardison's—barely—in the lead.)

The calls aren't meant as a kindness. They're Moreau's way of punishing the whole team, making sure Nate takes the bait. Hardison isn't fooling himself about that—or about the way he's playing into Moreau's hands every time he begs the team to hurry.

They're also what's getting Hardison through this, and he's relieved every time that it's Parker on the line. It must have been a group decision, he knows, and probably Sophie's even been coaching her, helping her focus on games and distractions. Hardison's grateful.

And worried. Parker was gone all day yesterday, and Hardison's a smart guy; he knows it's because she was too busy working on his rescue to hold his hand like this. Now, though? He keeps trying to work out what Parker's sudden availability says about Nate's plan, and just how risky that plan is. Parker and Sophie and Nate are putting themselves on the line to save them, going up against Moreau with no hacker or hitter, and he has no idea whether it's going to be one of Nate's strokes of brilliance or a total disaster.

It's been a long night.

"Kameen," Eliot mumbles.

Hardison reaches for the water with a sigh, re-wetting the gauze he's using as a washcloth. He's so _tired_.

"No Kameen here," Hardison says. "It's just you and me, brother."

Eliot frowns.

"Hunaake _kameen_."

"Hey, ugly American here," Hardison tells him. "You're gonna have to hallucinate in English."

He rubs Eliot's shoulder. Eliot mumbles again in what Hardison thinks might be Arabic, turning his head away.

"You're not there," Hardison says. "You're—"

And what is he supposed to say? _You're safe?_ _Everything's fine? _Right.

"You're having a bad dream," Hardison finishes, lamely. "That's all. Go back to sleep."

Eliot's words don't get clearer, but his tone changes from urgent to annoyed. Hardison keeps rubbing his shoulder until Eliot relaxes back to whatever's approximating rest right now.

"That's it," Hardison says softly. "Happy thoughts."

Hardison could do with a few more of those himself. What he's thinking about is math. Specifically, a word problem: San Lorenzo is an eleven-hour flight away, and that's with the direct flight out of Seattle, which the team would have to wait until evening for anyway. There are plenty of less-direct options, but no matter what, flying to Europe takes time, and San Lorenzo's not the kind of hub that runs a flight from Paris every hour. Hardison's people are damn good, but sadly teleporter technology is not in place yet. So, figure they went Portland to Paris to San Lorenzo, no delays, the best-case scenario was a fourteen-hour trip.

Nate's plan would be quick—they didn't have time to waste on stealing elections or starting revolutions. Hardison couldn't think what that plan would _be_, exactly, but Nathan Ford had never really let him down, not when it counted as much as this.

Nate had taken out that Irish loan shark in less than two hours, but this Damien Moreau, and Nate could say whatever he wanted about Moreau being human and, currently, vulnerable; he wasn't going to be an easy mark, and the team was shorthanded. Worse, Moreau knew Nate was coming, thanks to the radio. Never mind two hours; two _months_ was probably too tight.

Hardison rolls his shoulders, dismissing that. Nate knows the deadline; Hardison trusts him to get it done. So, what the hell: Four hours.

Plus maybe an hour to get the location of this stupid freaking container. Whatever it took to do that.

Fourteen hours to get back, longer if the flights don't line up.

Or maybe not; Parker hasn't sounded like she's on a flight, or even at an airport. They _could_ have chartered or stolen one, Hardison won't put it past them, but for a transatlantic flight it would have been faster and simpler to go commercial than to waste time setting that up.

Hardison's increasingly sure Parker hasn't gone anywhere at all. They'd done the same math, and they'd left her behind, ready to move as soon as they had a location.

She's not in danger. (_Not more than usual_, he corrects himself. He and Eliot had only gone out for coffee, and look how that had ended.) Parker is safe—and Nate and Sophie are on their own.

Can two people take down Moreau? Could three? Hardison has serious doubts. He wishes he could tell them not to do it, to find another way.

He also wishes they'd started yesterday. Eliot's tough, and he is still fighting this in his delirious, mumbly way, but he's weaker with every passing hour, and Hardison's still re-running the numbers, trying to make Nate's plan add up to a happy ending.

Hardison looks down. Eliot's fever-bright eyes are open, scanning the room. Hardison finds himself looking around and feels stupid for doing it: Eliot hasn't made sense in hours, unless Hardison counts the times he asks for water. (He can't. Eliot would never drink this much of a dwindling supply if he knew what he was doing.)

"There's no one here," Hardison says. "It's just you and me, Eliot."

Eliot looks at him.

"It's Hardison. I'm right here." Hardison keeps his smile in place, projecting reassurance.

"You shouldn't be here," Eliot tells him, the words slow and slurred.

"Of course I should," Hardison says, then spoils it with a yawn.

An orange soda would be so good right now. Hardison sighs. Bright side, though: Being this thirsty is keeping his mind off the hunger.

"I can't," Eliot says.

Hardison waits, but apparently that's a complete statement. Eliot's breathing too fast again, putting his back into it. This time, there's a raspy sound to it Hardison doesn't like at all.

"You don't have to do anything." He runs a hand through Eliot's hair again; that usually works. "Just rest."

Eliot's eyes wander to the corner again. Hardison shifts, blocking his view. Again.

It's starting to seriously freak Hardison out, how consistent Eliot is with that damn corner. Maybe this is not the first time someone's been shot in this particular container. Maybe the place really is haunted, and Eliot can see it because he's—

No. He's delirious, that's all. Hardison tells himself to get a grip.

"They're waiting," Eliot says.

_Not helping, Eliot._

"Well, they ain't gonna wait here," Hardison says, loud and confident.

Eliot looks at him, and for a few seconds his eyes seem to focus. Hardison strokes his hair again, then picks up Eliot's hand and squeezes it. "I got this one, Eliot. They aren't coming near you."

Eliot just breathes for a minute. It seems to take a lot of concentration. Hardison decides to think that's fine.

"I killed people," Eliot says. He licks his lips. He's struggling for air, but his eyes are still locked on Hardison's, alert and tired and deeply sad.

"Don't think about that right now," Hardison says.

"But before Moreau…I nev—never did it slow," Eliot continues, working for each word now, like this is important. "Not on purpose."

He breaks off. His hand tightens in Hardison's as he pants.

"Shouldn't've," he mumbles, his hand relaxing. "Moreau…he liked to…I…"

"That isn't who you are anymore," Hardison tells him, leaning closer.

"You…should 'member that. Wh—who I am."

"I _do_," Hardison says. "I know who you are, Eliot, and you're not going to convince me you deserve this. Save your breath."

He squeezes Eliot's hand as hard as he can, trying to get the clarity back in Eliot's eyes. After a while, Eliot squeezes back.

"You shouldn't b—be here," Eliot mumbles again.

This time Hardison hears the emphasis on _you_. He wishes he could give Eliot a good sharp shake.

"Neither should you," Hardison says, staring hard into Eliot's eyes.

Then, embarrassingly, he yawns again.

"Rest," Eliot says. It's a raspy mimic of what Hardison's been repeating for hours. He _has_ been listening.

Hardison smiles. "In a bit. Parker's going to call in—"

He checks his watch. She's two minutes late.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Hardison keeps his breathing even and plasters another smile on his face. His damn cheeks are starting to ache. Maybe his watch is wrong. Never mind that it's a $100,000 timepiece (or would have been if he thought for a second Parker had actually paid for it) and a work of meticulously functional art.

Hardison picks up the radio. He flicks the switch a few times. "Parker? Babe? You there?"

Nothing.

_Shit_.

Hardison flips the switch on the radio again. It might not even do anything. Moreau seems to have the whole thing on remote.

"Parker?"

Maybe this is a positive development. Yeah. Yeah, it could be. No need to panic; Nate's got Moreau, or at least got him off his game, and the scumbag doesn't have time to play stupid games with the radio. That's got to be it.

Or it's just another mind game. Turn off the radio, or even just pretend to, and listen to Hardison freak out about it. Cut Nate off from the reassurance that they're still alive here. See if that forces him into a stupid mistake. It could be that.

(Except Hardison's been playing right into Moreau's hands with every communication, as much as he hates himself for it. He hasn't been reassuring anyone.)

It is not at all an option that they just aren't needed as bait anymore.

It's not.

Eliot's obviously picking up Hardison's panic; he grabs at his shirt, trying to pull himself up. His left bootheel scrapes the metal floor, looking for traction.

"Shh," Hardison says. "Everything's fine."

Something pings on the roof. Hardison jumps, his heart racing. Eliot freezes, hand fisted in Hardison's shirt. More pings. Faster.

Hardison looks at the door. The clatter intensifies. It doesn't sound like a helicopter, but—

"Rain," Eliot says.

He loosens his grip, and his head falls back on Hardison's leg. Eliot's still breathing hard enough that Hardison can feel the effort, but he's smiling a little, wistful. Calmer. Hardison makes himself smile back.

Rain. Not rescue. Just rain.

"'s nice," Eliot murmurs. "Like home."

"You complain when it rains at home," Hardison points out.

Eliot tips his head, the ghost of a shrug.

Hardison can see where the steady noise of it could be soothing in other circumstances, but it doesn't sound like home to him. Tin roofs aren't much of a feature in Portland—or Boston or LA or Chicago—so all it makes Hardison think of is a white noise machine. It's drowning out the sounds of Eliot's breathing, forcing Hardison to strain to hear him, which ain't exactly relaxing.

It's also, he realizes, drowning out Parker. Or at least the clouds it's coming from probably are. Not a sign of progress or disaster, just…weather. Probably scaring the shit out of the team, too, if they don't figure it out.

All in all, not Hardison's favorite development. Eliot, though: there's no denying the pain on his face, but he's not mumbling or moving or staring at ghosts. It seems like he might be genuinely resting, for the moment. Hardison counts that as a win. The more so when half an hour goes by and Eliot doesn't move.

It is kind of…boring, though? Not that Hardison wants anything else to happen (unless it's their rescue). He does _not_. Boring is A-OK with him. He even taps a knuckle lightly against the floor, pretending it's wood, to drive home that thought.

But the radio isn't working, and the rain is hard and steady like it plans to stick around, and the sound of all that water, just inches away and completely out of reach, is making Hardison so thirsty he could scream. Or he could if his throat weren't so dry. Not to mention the other urges it's reminding him of.

"I need to get up for a minute," he finally says.

Eliot's eyes are open. He's in what Hardison is calling a good period—his breathing's fast, but he's not fighting or moaning or dreaming. He's staring into space, listening to the rain. Maybe he's meditating.

"Eliot?" Hardison tries again.

If meditating helps Eliot cope with the pain, Hardison doesn't want to mess with that. He can't imagine how bad it is, and he doesn't want to—Eliot Spencer looks like he's in agony, that must be a level of suffering that…well. And it's been more than a day.

_Damien Moreau is going to pay_, Hardison tells himself. It's small solace, especially since Hardison doesn't know exactly what he wants to do to avenge this anyway. It sure as hell won't involve mailing him porn at the office. Possibly Eliot will have some useful ideas, or Parker will.

"I'm going to move you," Hardison says. "It's just me. Hardison. Don't fight, okay?"

Eliot doesn't react at all when Hardison gently transfers his head to the almost-empty first aid kit. It's like moving an oversized doll.

Hardison hovers for a minute, one hand on Eliot's shoulder. If all he can do is watch Eliot, turning his back on that, even for a minute, feels like a betrayal. He won't be able to hear Eliot breathing. If Eliot—if all Hardison can do is bear witness, he can't look away.

But watching isn't accomplishing a damn thing.

And, despite the guilt and the fear and the crushing loneliness, it still feels good to stand up. Hardison hates himself for that, but he can't deny it. He goes back to Eliot's side as quickly as he can—still breathing, not moving, no change—but he doesn't sit back down.

He paces the container a few times, letting his muscles warm up and stopping with every lap to check Eliot, touch him, let him know he's not alone. Or try to. Every time, Hardison holds his breath until he sees the rise and fall of Eliot's chest.

The rain pounds on the roof and wall, but no water drips down through the vents at each end. Hardison kicks the wall again, aiming for the rusty spot. There's no give.

He finds the tweezers, and, holding his breath, opens the back of the radio. He studies the components, leaving them in place. Carefully, he closes the radio.

Hardison sits down next to Eliot, ignoring the dull flare of pain in his back, and rests a hand on his shoulder again.

After a while, Eliot's eyes track toward him, slow, calm. Like he doesn't have the energy to be startled anymore.

He looks worse, Hardison realizes, although he's not sure what makes him think so. He's only been away a couple of minutes, and even then, he'd never stopped checking in. Nothing could have changed.

"You thirsty?" he asks Eliot.

More of the water runs out of Eliot's mouth than not—he seems to be having trouble swallowing now—but the haze in his eyes clears a little, so maybe it's helping anyway.

Eliot mumbles something.

Hardison leans forward, keeping his smile in place. "Sorry, man. Didn't catch that."

"Thank you," Eliot says, slow and slurred.

"We have plenty," Hardison tells him. "You want some more?"

"N—not for that," Eliot says. "Don't give me more. 's no point."

"What?" Hardison's mouth goes dry again.

He grabs for Eliot's wrist, fumbling for his pulse. His hand is cold. Eliot's face, his neck, are so hot, and his hand is cold.

"Jus'…thanks," Eliot says, ignoring him.

"No," Hardison tells him. "You don't get to _thank me_, Eliot. Don't be an asshole. I know you're hurting, but you're Eliot Spencer. You're the most stubborn guy I know. You don't give up."

Eliot's pulse is hard to find, and there's an unevenness to it that makes Hardison's own chest contract painfully. He holds Eliot's hand between his own, trying to warm it.

"B—been a…good friend. So. Thanks."

"_Stop it_," Hardison snaps. "You think you're Sophie now? You don't get a big death scene, Eliot. It's not—it's not _fair._"

"Fair," Eliot echoes.

"Shut up," Hardison tells him. "You know what I mean. Just stop. I don't want to listen to this."

He doesn't have to; Eliot's voice is so weak all Hardison has to do to avoid it is to sit up straight. He doesn't.

"I'm dying," Eliot says. "You…really gon' yell?"

Hardison squeezes Eliot's hand, _hard_, then sets it gently on his chest.

"No," he says. "I'm not."

Hardison wipes at his eyes until his vision clears. He cuts a fresh piece of gauze, starting to run low now but so fucking what, there's no point in rationing. He dips it in the water, then squeezes it into Eliot's mouth, a few drops at a time, tilting Eliot's jaw to help him swallow. Eliot makes a small, contented sound, so Hardison repeats the process until Eliot's breathing gets bad again.

Hardison strokes Eliot's hair and rubs his shoulders and murmurs encouragement, and he has never felt this powerless in his life.

Eliot breathes like every inhalation is a conscious decision. His eyes are so tired.

"I can't hack the radio," Hardison tells him. "Not with what we have to work with. Even if I could, the clouds are blocking the signal. I can't break us out of here."

Eliot shuts his eyes.

"Eliot, you can't leave me alone in here. You can't. _Please_."

Like it's really some kind of magic word.

"You're tough," Eliot finally says. "Tougher than I th—…T—took me…long time. To see."

"I don't want to be tough," Hardison tells him. "That's your job."

Eliot's breath pauses for a second. Then another. Then starts again. Hardison finds himself syncing his own breaths with Eliot's. After a minute, his chest starts to burn. He forces himself to stop.

Outside, thunder rumbles.

Eliot shivers.

Hardison lies down, not quite spooning Eliot, but only because he doesn't want to risk causing more pain. He props himself up on one arm and holds Eliot's hand instead.

"Just a little longer, Eliot. Please."

Eliot doesn't answer. Hardison watches his chest rise and fall, holding his breath when Eliot's pauses. He listens to the rain the thunder and his own sobbing breaths.

And in the distance, he hears the faint _whumpa-whumpa_ of a helicopter.


	5. Chapter 5

Nate stumbles to a halt as he crosses the threshold, eyes wide, taking in the bare space. All Hardison can do is stare back, one hand holding Eliot's, the other spread like it could shield them both from the bullets that aren't coming.

"In here!" Nate yells.

Then he's crouching next to Hardison, running a hand through his wet hair. Nate's face freezes, and for a second Hardison thinks—but Eliot's still breathing. Hardison's sure.

He checks again anyway, then realizes Nate's staring at him, face white, one hand pressed to his ear, talking fast.

"What?" Hardison manages.

"Are you hurt?" Nate repeats.

"Eliot," Hardison begins, and Nate's jaw twitches.

"Are _you_ hurt?" Nate asks.

"I'm fine."

Nate nods and jogs out of the container. Hardison stares at the open door, wondering if he was supposed to follow. He holds Eliot's hand instead, watches the rain. Waits.

Not for long.

Nate jogs back, still talking into his earbud but this time leading a long-haired man Hardison needs a second to recognize. Quinn.

Quinn gives him a nod and a cocky grin that flattens into a hard line as he takes in Eliot. He holsters his gun—somehow Hardison finds a moment to be surprised at the gun, even indignant. Eliot won't like it.

But Eliot doesn't know.

Quinn shoulders Hardison out of the way, checking over Eliot with comforting professionalism.

"Get the stretcher," he says, his voice flat.

If Nate minds taking orders from Quinn, he doesn't show it. He disappears into the rain again.

Quinn slaps lightly at Eliot's cheek, then shakes his shoulder. "Eliot?"

Eliot doesn't respond. His face is slack now, the pain lines finally starting to smooth out. Quinn frowns and opens Eliot's eyelid, then does something Hardison can't quite catch, running his fist over Eliot's chest.

Eliot groans, almost too soft to hear. Quinn nods, apparently satisfied.

"Don't hurt him," Hardison says.

Quinn ignores that, or maybe Hardison didn't say it loud enough. The helicopter is loud and his mouth is dry and everything seems to be happening very fast. Hardison can't see what Quinn is doing, but he can see the tension in his face.

Quinn looks up, checking the door.

"Don't bother," he says. Hardison frowns, then remembers the earbuds. "We're leaving as soon as we can load him up."

"Parker?" Hardison asks. "Sophie? Are they okay?"

Quinn spares him a quick glance. "Talking my ear off."

Something in Hardison relaxes, and the rest of him follows. Spots swim before his eyes. He drops his head between his knees, counting out his breaths like Parker taught him.

_Not yet_, he tells himself. _Eliot needs you._

It's no good, and it's not even true. Eliot doesn't need his hand held. Eliot needs a full trauma center. Hardison's just in the way.

A hand falls on Hardison's back, and then someone's shoving a paper bag in his face.

"I'm not hyperventilating," Hardison says. "I'm fine. Eliot…"

He looks up, sees Nate frowning at him. "Sandwich," he says. "As requested."

"Oh." Hardison takes the bag with numb fingers.

"We're on the edge of a nasty storm," Nate tells him. "We need to move. Can you walk?"

"Yeah," Hardison says, looking up. "Of course."

Quinn transfers Eliot to a high-tech stretcher and starts strapping him down like a piece of luggage. He's slapped an oxygen mask over Eliot's face, and Hardison can't see if the pain is back or if Eliot's still…letting go.

"Parker and Sophie will meet us at the hospital," Nate continues. He's looking around the container again, face tight and hard to read.

"Okay," Hardison says. Then, "Moreau? San Lorenzo?"

Nate's smile is smug, until his eyes track back to Eliot. "I lied."

Hardison doesn't get it.

"It was a con," Nate says, turning his head away from Eliot, then glancing back. That muscle in his jaw is ticcing again. "We needed Moreau to think he'd hidden you too well—that we'd given up on rescuing you and were going straight for revenge. Unless he tossed us a few more breadcrumbs to keep us busy."

Hardison nods like he understands. Like this matters.

"We will get him," Nate says. Grim. He's looking at Eliot again.

"You gonna give me a hand?" Quinn snaps.

Hardison starts forward, but Nate beats him to it, taking half the stretcher and leaning over Eliot, sheltering him from the rain. Hardison trails after them, still carrying the paper bag. His stomach growls, loud, and Nate's head snaps up from the stretcher, giving him a sharp look.

Hardison drops his eyes, ashamed.

"Come on," Nate says, gruff and gentle all at once. "Let's get you boys home."

* * *

If anyone had asked Hardison, he'd have said that all he wanted in the world was for someone competent to take over. For Eliot to be in a hospital, and Hardison to be on a computer or a phone or something he knew how to deal with.

Now that it's happened, though.

He spins Parker's phone in his hands, eyes on the doors. Eliot's back there somewhere, with a whole team of first-class professionals working to save him. Hardison has a borrowed phone, a bottle of water fresh from the machine, and Parker sitting in the next chair, kicking him as she taps her foot. Quinn is still here, sitting in the corner, playing freaking Candy Crush like this is just another job. Nate is getting endless cups of coffee. Pages are announced overhead. At the desk, nurse is talking about her cat, showing Sophie her phone.

And Hardison can't stop listening for Eliot's breath.

"He's going to be okay," Parker says.

Hardison watches her foot, tapping fast. He reaches out, a little hesitant, and she takes his hand. Her fingers are thin and cool and calloused and delicate, and when she squeezes, he shuts his eyes and he's back with Eliot, feeling a broader, rougher hand go slack in his.

"Hardison?" she asks.

"Yeah," Hardison says.

His voice comes out flat. He takes another sip of his water.

Parker kicks at the chair. She sheds stress through motion, Hardison knows. She should be climbing something right now.

"Nate says this is a good hospital," she says.

Hardison turns the phone in his hands. "It is," he says. "I checked it out."

"I wish we were in Portland."

"This was the closest level one trauma center," Hardison says. "We had to—"

"I know." Parker punctuates the statement with another kick to her chair. "I just wish we were _home_. All of us."

Hardison looks up at her. She looks tired; she's been up all night too, talking to him and searching for him. Her jacket is wrinkled and her ponytail is tight, and there's no expression on her face. And she wants to go home. She has a home, with him and the others. Something to lose, for the first time in a long time. Hardison doesn't think he'll ever be able to hear that without a rush of love and joy. He pulls her in, gentle, waiting to see if she stiffens or resists. She rests her head on his shoulder.

Sophie laughs at something the nurse says.

Hardison checks the time again. It has to be a good thing, that it's taking so long. If Eliot were—if it was hopeless, they'd have said so by now.

"You missed game night," Parker says.

Hardison looks at her, searching for context, but Parker's face is still blank. He's too tired for this. She leans over and taps his watch, and it clicks. Game night. It's a surreal thought: If life were normal, he'd be on Roll20 now—or no, probably not _now_, unless they ran seriously late. He'd be wired on sugar and character sheets, eager to tell Parker all about it. Parker usually did her own thing on game night, but she's in the habit of coming over later, so right about now she'd be climbing through his window or dropping out of the ceiling or—just maybe—using the door, full of adrenaline from her more athletic adventures.

They'll probably kick him out of the game, he realizes. He's missed too many game nights already, and this isn't the first time he hasn't had advance notice. He can't make himself care. His eyelids are getting heavy.

Nate passes by with another cup of coffee, his movements so careful Hardison is sure he's drunk. He nods to Quinn and sits a few chairs away.

The door opens.

"Nate Spencer?"

They all freeze. Nate slowly, fussily, sets down his coffee. He stands so slowly Hardison wants to scream. He wants to get up himself—it doesn't seem right, not to be the one who hears the news. Eliot is _Hardison's_ responsibility.

But he doesn't know the plan, if there is one. He hasn't thought to ask. And now Nate's moving, each step so deliberate it feels like it takes him ten years to cross the room and follow the doctor out of sight.

"Hardison, breathe," Parker says, demonstrating. She's grabbing his arm hard enough to bruise.

Hardison nods and sips his water.

Sophie appears, hovering in front of them, then taking Nate's chair a few feet away. She picks up Nate's coffee, sniffs it, then takes a sip.

"Ugh," she says, her face a parody of disgust. "I thought this was going to be whiskey."

Hardison knows what she's trying to do, and it's not working. She could be juggling chainsaws while yodeling and it wouldn't be a distraction. He plays along anyway. "What is it?"

"Coffee," Sophie says. She takes another sip and makes that face again. "Terrible, terrible coffee."

Hardison offers her his water.

Sophie shakes her head. "I need the caffeine."

She doesn't look tired, but then Sophie never does. Her hair is twisted neatly out of her face, her clothes and dark and elegant and easy to move in, and in place of heels she's wearing deceptively practical and probably hideously expensive shoes: commando chic. Sophie was ready to fight for them.

Hardison makes a note to thank her, somehow.

"I wish we'd seen him," Sophie says, breaking the silence. "I wish we'd been here faster. That _storm_…"

"There wouldn't have been time," Hardison says. Something is wrong with his voice; he sounds as dried up as he'd been in the container. He sips the water. "They took him as soon as we landed. He wasn't conscious anyway."

There's no point in saying anything else about it.

Sophie presses her lips together.

A century later, the door opens. Nate heads right for them, faster now. Tense. He's looking at Sophie, or maybe at his stolen coffee: Hardison can't see his eyes.

"He made it through surgery," Nate says. "They're transferring him to the ICU."

"He's alive," Sophie says, and the sheer relief in her voice makes Hardison's eyes and throat burn.

Nate runs a hand through his hair. "Yes."

"He's going to be okay?" Parker asks.

Nate's nostrils flare. "I don't know."

"Why not?" Parker demands. "Didn't they fix him?"

Nate gestures vaguely at the air. "Yeah, well. He'll need more surgery later, when he's stable."

"He's not stable?" This time it's Sophie making demands.

"He has sepsis."

It's not like the news should be a shock; Hardison's no doctor, but he's not stupid. Hearing it announced shouldn't matter, but the news settles over him like a heavy weight. Sophie takes it harder, raising a hand to cover her mouth. It's not the kind of tell she normally allows herself. Parker just looks between them, studying their reactions.

Nate looks up, and Hardison can finally see his eyes. Nate's not tired. He's angry.

"It turns out Eliot doesn't have a spleen," Nate says, filling the silence. "Which he never bothered to mention. Just like he didn't feel the need to tell us about the mesh in his abdominal wall or—what was he _thinking_?"

"Why does that stuff matter?" Parker asks.

"The spleen is part of the immune system, Parker," Nate says. "Not having one makes you more susceptible to stuff like this. But listen, he's in good hands here. They'll know more when they see if—how he responds to the antibiotics."

"When can we see him?" Hardison asks.

"Not tonight. Look. I'll handle things here. You go get cleaned up, get some rest. All of you, go…uh…"

"There's a hotel down the street," Sophie offers.

Nate nods. "Good. Yeah."

"I'm staying here," Hardison says. "I want to see him."

"Me too," Parker says.

Nate looks at Sophie.

"Hardison, darling, don't take this the wrong way," Sophie says. "But you _urgently_ need a shower. And I think we all could use some rest. Will we be able to see Eliot in the morning?"

Nate rubs his face again. "They're only letting me in because I'm family."

"So are we," Parker says.

Nate pinches the bridge of his nose, wincing like his head hurts.

"We are," Parker says. "Hardison can make us aliases."

"Hardison needs to get some sleep," Nate says. "And Eliot wouldn't want you to see him like this."

Hardison almost laughs. "Nate. What do you think I been seeing the past two days?"

Nate studies him, not saying anything. Hardison is not in the mood for one of Nate's tests, but he stares back, too tired to be intimidated.

If Eliot's sick, he'll need someone to talk to him, make sure the ghosts keep their distance. If Eliot's dying, he's going to do it with his family at his side.

Nate drops his eyes first.

"You took good care of him in there, Hardison. Thank you. Let me take tonight. We can figure out the rest in the morning." Nate doesn't wait for his answer. "Quinn, can you get them settled in?"

Hardison had almost forgotten Quinn was still there.

"He isn't staying here?" Sophie asks sharply.

Hardison doesn't get it, but he sees Nate's hand twitch to his waistband. And once he's looking, he can see the shape of a gun.

"Moreau wanted us distracted," Nate says. "We are. He wins. He's got no reason to try anything. Quinn?"

"You checked Eliot in under his own name," Quinn says uncomfortably. "Moreau's gotta know you're here. If that's what he wanted, you're probably safe for a while."

"You don't agree that's what this about?" Nate asks, frowning.

Quinn shrugs. "If he just wanted you out of the way, he could have taken you out easily enough. You people aren't hard to find. Rumor is, gut shot's what he does to traitors. I'd say this is about Eliot, not you. But even if I'm right…" Quinn pauses, looking even more uncomfortable. "You don't put a hit on a guy in Eliot's shape. No point."

Nate winces.

"Eliot's going to be _fine_," Parker insists. Automatically, Hardison lays a hand on her arm.

"I wouldn't bet against him," Quinn agrees easily. "And if Nate is right, the rest of you _could_ still be targets, sooner or later. You think I want to face Eliot if I let something happen to you? Hell, no. So do me a favor and keep your heads down till you're his problem, not mine."

Parker nods, still not happy.

"Right," Sophie says brightly. "You three, let's go. Nate, you _will_ call us if anything changes."


End file.
